


you ain't a beauty but hey, you're all right

by janie_tangerine



Series: jbweek 2019 [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (if not the minimal in the beginning), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brienne is the Best, Bruce Springsteen References, Concerts, Dorks in Love, ENDLESS SPRINGSTEEN REFERENCE, F/M, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week 2019, Love at First Sight, Music, No Angst, Romantic Gestures, Surprise Kissing, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, sorry guys y'all get the springsteen infodump this round
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 04:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20847800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which Jaime's car breaks down just as he's headed to a Springsteen concert.Good thing he runs into someone else heading to that exact gig who's more than amenable to give him a ride.





	you ain't a beauty but hey, you're all right

**Author's Note:**

> AAAND WELCOME TO JBWEEK FIC TWO, for which, given the prompt _summer_ and peripherally heat, I recycled a prompt I got on tumblr which was _ Jaime has car troubles and no one stops to help him, except the motorcycle rider wearing a black leather jacket whose name is Brienne. It turns out both were headed to the same concert, so she gives him a ride while his car is being towed._
> 
> NOW, if it wasn't obvious I'm in a worse Springsteen mood than usual, so for today you get 100% fluff without no redeeming quality made of 'jaime and brienne go to the 2016 River tour' <strike>sadly not the date I went to which was the best gig I ever attended but that's beyond the point</strike> and proceed on being utter nerds about it. Except that I realize that some stuff in here would probably make anyone not into the guy go completely WHAT THE HELL, so before you read, keep in mind that:
> 
> \- The 1999 reunion tour was the one where the guy reunited the E-Street band after ten years of pause that had sent half of the fanbase into despair;  
\- The Hammersmith '75 concert was Springsteen's first European show in his career which means that most people attending his shows these days in Europe have *not* attended it and would most likely die in envy should they run into anyone who actually did;  
\- _Racing in the Street_ is about a guy with an exceedingly sad life who attends regular clandestine car races in his hometown;  
\- The deal about the stadium's floor in Gothenburg is that when Springsteen played that particular venue in 1985 people were so enthusiastic that the place nearly collapsed and had to be reinforced after that one time.
> 
> Other than that the rest should be pretty straightforward - I put links to all the songs in case. ;) have fun with the mindless fluff and see you hopefully tomorrow! Of course nothing belongs to me and the title is from Thunder Road ie The JB Song If You Ask My Humble Opinion *cough* ;)

“Fuck,” Jaime says as he finds himself facing the fact that his car won’t re-start regardless of how much he turns the key in the ignition. “Fuck, fuck and _fuck_,” he repeats, again, slamming his fist on the wheel and trying to assess the situation.

So: the car started sputtering in the middle of the highway and then just about died, and good thing that it’s seven in the morning and no one was around. He managed to park it in one of the emergency lanes, but then it just about shut down for good. It’s _not_ the gas because the tank was full, he took care of it before leaving because he’s not paranoid about many things but he _is_ paranoid about the specific reason why he left home at five AM.

He gets out of it, opens the hood and looks at the engine, but nothing looks overtly wrong with it and it’s not overheated or anything of the kind, and that’s where his skills with motors end.

So: his car is dead, he’s in the middle of the highway to fucking Coventry on which he’s never driven once in his entire life, he should get there by nine AM if he wants to keep up with his plan and he’s conveniently in a part in the middle of fucking nowhere. He whips out his phone and groans at seeing there’s no bloody data reception.

_Shit_. So now he can’t even look up if there’s a mechanic nearby. _Splendid_.

He’s about to call Tyrion when he remembers that _no_, he left for New Zealand with Bronn yesterday, which means that if he’s not still on the plane the both of them are probably jet-lagged as fuck and he has a feeling that it’s already the dead of the night on the other side of the planet, so he’s _not_ going to look up mechanics for him in… wherever the fuck he’s at.

Bronn is with him, of course, so that takes out the only other person he could have called, and —

Shit.

_Shit_.

He sighs, looks up the ten missed calls from Cersei yesterday and calls her back.

He hopes that _for once_ —

“Nice of you to _finally_ remember to call back,” she says as soon as she picks up the phone.

This is _not_ going to go over well.

“I wasn’t going to, but — listen, the car broke down and I’m somewhere two hours from Coventry, there’s no data and I need a mechanic, for once could you _please_ look one up and text me the number?”

“What? Oh, yes, so I can contribute to your ridiculous juvenile road trip?”

“Cersei, for — it’s not _juvenile_ and it matters to _me_, I didn’t ask anyone to come with, can you just pay me this one favor for —”

“Forget it. When it comes to _that_, you’re on your own. Unless —”

“Fuck you,” Jaime says, already knowing what she’s about to ask, and there’s no way he’s going back to work for _them_ in exchange for a damn telephone number. She calls him again after, but he doesn’t answer.

_Juvenile road trip_. That he never had the guts to go for when he was younger and he _could_ have done it just because he felt like both his father and Cersei would have chewed him out the moment he proposed it, and they _did_ chew him out when he said he wasn’t going to be available this entire week and they could save their calls to convince him to come back and work for the damned company.

He did it for years, he was miserable, he hated everything about it, he couldn’t stand sharing a room with Cersei anymore after — _after_, and he’s not going back to it at any point in existence regardless of how much they beg him. He never wanted to be in PR and if they don’t like that he’s taking a few months off before he _finally_ tries for that history degree he always wanted to go for after the summer is over, their problem.

So, no help from _that_ corner. Tyrion is out of the country. Bronn is out of the country. The data is still dead.

He sees a car coming and he immediately tries to stop it, but the person just speeds and drives forward.

Well, fuck that.

He takes a deep breath and waits for the next one. At this point even if they won’t take up hitchhikers _maybe_ someone will stop and tell let him call a damned mechanic.

He hopes so.

— —

One hour later, five cars have passed by and the only one who stopped is going to Norwich, as in, the total opposite direction, and has no idea of where is the next town.

One hour and a half later, another three have passed, none stopped and his phone is vibrating with too many texts to count. He sighs, takes it out, reads them. They’re all Cersei’s, of course.

_Come on, you’re being ridiculous._

_I’m looking up for the number if you come back to London immediately and stop with this nonsense._

_You don’t even need to be gone the entire week._

_Jaime, pick the damned phone up._

He shakes his head.

_No_, he types back, and then blocks her number for good. He had refrained to for the last six months but now it feels liberating, but the moment he sticks the phone back in his jacket’s pocket he suddenly feels like — he doesn’t know _why_ he feels like breaking down in tears, but he had been looking forward to doing _this_ for months if not his entire damned life (since he was twelve, at least), he had planned everything carefully, the first round had gone so well and he couldn’t wait to do it again, he has all the damned tickets and now it’s not even that he might miss the date, it’s _tomorrow_, but he’ll miss the right time to queue _if_ he ever gets there before tonight, and the idea of standing on the side of the road for until someone stops when it could be _hours_ before someone does is just… he _hates_ it when he doesn’t have things under control after spending years feeling like his father and sister breathed down his neck all the damned time and like _he_ never had control on almost anything around him, and so maybe it’s ridiculous that at the ripe age of thirty-five he’s standing in the damned highway wiping angry tears from his eyes because he’s stuck here and his damned sister couldn’t just help him out for _once_ —

Suddenly, he hears a sound like a motorcycle stopping by.

“Hey,” a feminine voice says from his left, “do you need help?”

Jaime immediately turns to check out who exactly has showed up now, and he’s in mind of telling whoever this is that _yes_, he really does, but the moment he actually _sees_ her words suddenly dry up in his mouth.

So: yes, the woman in question is riding a motorcycle, and not a crappy one — a honest to God vintage blue Triumph pristinely kept, and she’s just hopped off it, and she’s definitely taller than him, not much but a couple inches at least, and as she takes off her helmet, he can notice that she has wide, _strong_ shoulders under her leather jacket, never mind the tight blue jeans hugging legs that seem to go on for miles.

The moment she has the helmet off, it reveals pale straw-blonde hair tied up in a bun without too much finesse, and she looks straight at him with a pair of large, _pretty_ blue eyes that are admittedly standing out on a fairly homely face — large lips, square jaw, a nose that’s been broken more than once for sure and freckles splattered all over her cheeks.

“Yeah,” he says, thinking that while she might not look like a fashion model she definitely is _something_, “fuck, _yes_, I’ve been stuck here for hours and — _oh_.”

His eyes fall on her t-shirt just as hers fall on _his_.

The moment before, she had seemed courteous but guarded, and her mouth had been drawn in a thin line, but now it curls up into an amused grin as she obviously takes in that he’s wearing the old _Born in the USA _tour shirt he grabbed at this vintage shop when he was fifteen and never quite completely ruined for some kind of miracle, while _he_ takes his that she’s wearing an even older _Darkness on the Edge of Town_ tour shirt that most likely was printed before she was born, considering that she can’t be older than twenty-five.

“Let me guess,” she says, sounding as amused as she’s looking, “you’re going to Coventry.”

“And what if you’re right? I was planning on queueing from today, admittedly, but — _that_ happened.”

“Imagine that, I had the exact same plan,” she says. “So, _what_ happened exactly?”

“Uh, I was on my way and then it just — shut down. Barely gave me time to park. It’s _not_ the gas and nothing looks broken under the hood, but I honestly don’t know —”

“Good for you that I actually _can_ repair a car,” she says. “Let me check.”

He immediately opens the hood for her and lets her check — she has large hands, he notices, with rough fingers and well-kept but short nails, but they seem swift and experienced as she touches around and hums under her breath. She asks him for the keys, tries to start the car, fails. Then she closes the door, goes back to check under the hood, then turns towards him again.

“Good news or bad news first?” She asks.

“… Good news, please,” he replies.

“The good news is that I figured it out, your alternator has broken.”

“My _what_?”

“Yeah, I figured. It’s the part that charges the battery, which is also by the way, very dead.”

“_Shit_.”

“So, if you change both of them it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle. The problem is that if you don’t have spares _I_ can’t do it and I can tell you for sure that the nearest place that would have someone with spares that might is one hour from here, in the opposite direction, and as it’s the only good shop in the area, they always have a waiting list.”

“… How long?”

“At least a couple of days.”

_Fuck._ Fuck, fuck and _fuck_, and maybe he says it out loud, but — if he has to go there and wait two days he’s going to have to find a hotel, go to the concert by train missing his shot at first five lines, and then he’ll have to go back for the car and fuck first row in London, too, and who knows when he’s going to tour again, and —

“Hey,” the girl says, moving closer, putting a hand on his arm, “are you all right? I mean, sorry to intrude, but it looks like this isn’t just about, uh, Bruce.”

“Sort of,” he wheezes, and he doesn’t know why the hell he’s telling her all this when _he doesn’t even know her name_ but she stopped, she did help him out and she seems like someone who’d get it — if anything, other fans are probably the only people who’d get it, but — “it’s just, I’ve been into his music since I was what, twelve, but let’s say that where I come from liking bands is seen as something you should outgrow by the time you’re eight, and every single time I wanted to go see him _something_ happened not so casually or my father just straight out banned it, and the one time I said I kind of wanted to do all the dates for the _Reunion_ tour or at least one of them I was straight-up told to grow up already —”

“… wait a moment, the reunion tour was in ‘99.”

“Yeah.”

“And how old were you then? If I may ask.”

He shrugs. “Seventeen. Well, I turned eighteen but I was seventeen when I asked.”

“… What the fuck,” she says, shaking her head. “What does your father think people are seventeen, seasoned businessmen?”

“… You aren’t too wrong,” he shrugs. “So, that was not a thing, and shit happened in the meantime, so _this_ was actually the first time I could, you know. Go all-out. I went to Manchester before, then I drove up to Glasgow and I figured I’d just drive down to London, get there a day early and queue so I’d be on front and just, let’s say that I don’t even live with them anymore nor work for them anymore and I still got endless shit for it, and just — I know it’s _stupid_ but I was looking forward to it, you know?”

“I know,” she says, and she sounds like she _gets_ it. “You know, _this_,” she points at her shirt, “was my father’s. He brought me to the first one. It _was_ the reunion tour, actually.”

“No way. He _did_?”

“Stood on his shoulders half of the time. I still have a pick.”

“Wait, _Bruce gave you a pick_?”

She smiles. “What can I say, I was very enthusiastic. Anyway, maybe this is your lucky day.”

“As in?”

“As in, I’m from the town with the mechanic in question, I _also_ had your same idea and I was driving to Coventry, _and_ since I work part time for the guy while I’m finishing my bachelor’s, I think I can call in a favor. Not getting you to skip the line, but — wait.”

She grabs her phone, dials a number and waits just a few seconds before it’s picked up.

“Brynden? Hey, yeah, I might need a favor. I ran into someone while driving to Coventry, yeah, yeah, _I know you hate me_, I’ll see you in London. Anyway, the guy in question is _also_ going to Coventry for the same reasons as me, his alternator’s broken and he needs a battery replacement, too. Of course, yeah, you can just send Pod to get his car and then — yeah, exactly. Splendid, you’re the best.”

“… What did just happen?” Jaime asks, noticing that she’s grinning as she closes the call.

“My boss, who’s also a fan and coming to London on the 5th and who currently hates me because he couldn’t make _this_ one concert and I could, is sending over the other kid who works with him to get your car and drive it back to town so _we_ don’t have to waste time going there. Also, Pod is a nice kid but also tends to go over the speed limit, so maybe he’ll be here in less than one hour, all things considered. Also, I usually don’t — I _don’t_, but I have a spare helmet and I’m going to Coventry. If you want to ride with me, that’s fine. I mean, not going to lie but queueing alone is kind of sad, so —”

The first thing he wants to tell her is, _I could kiss you_, but he has a feeling she wouldn’t take it too well, given how she said _I don’t_ before, so he just tries to not sound as if he’s about to weep in gratitude when he accepts.

“Good,” she says, smiling tentatively. “By the way, I’m Brienne.”

_Right_. They haven’t even introduced, for —

“Jaime,” he says, shaking her hand, and _oh_, she has a strong, nice, _firm_ grip, and she’s smiling back at him like she’s kind of happy she asked him to come.

He thinks that he’ll have to ride behind her for at least two hours and he decides that _maybe_ his car breaking down won’t be the worst thing that ever happened to him.

— —

When the kid — Pod — shows up forty minutes later as predicted, he’s found out that she went to each single tour since 1999, that her favorite record is _Darkness_ but her favorite song is _[Thunder Road](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGBXnw86Mgc) _and she actually half-blushes as she says it, and that she’s also dead-set on first row since she got fifth in Glasgow and she never managed to get as far before except when she went with her dad the first couple of times, and he just — he’s _never_ found someone in real life he could discuss Springsteen with and he’s actually excited about it, and it’s just… easy to talk to her.

Which means that by the time Pod arrives she has also found out that his favorite record is _The River_ but his favorite song is _[Badlands](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7T_6Ua6fd5s)_ and that he’s dead envious that she’s at her, what, seventh tour and fifteenth concert and she also looks delighted that she’s actually discussing Springsteen with someone.

“Hey,” she says, “you’re making up for lost time. And I mean, he’s as good now as he was then. You might have missed on it, but you have another two in front of you, right?”

“Right,” he agrees, and then, “you know, it’s nice to actually, like, talk about it with someone. I mean, my brother _tries_ to follow me but he’s more into jazz and classical so it’s a lost cause. And the rest — let’s not even go there.”

“Well,” she shrugs, “it’s not like any of the three friends I have except my boss actually _does_ like him. For that matter — fuck, this is embarrassing as hell.”

“You’re talking to the guy who was about to cry because he might miss _queueing_, miss.”

“There’s a reason why _Thunder Road_ is my favorite song,” she sighs. “I was six and some kid in my class that I had a crush on told me that I was so ugly no one would ever want to be with me.”

“_What the fuck_ —”

“Thanks for the outrage, it’s appreciated. So, I go back home in tears, I tell my dad, he thinks about it, tells me that I might want to listen to something, he puts _Born to Run_ on, that song starts, I get at the end of the first part and I was in it for life.” She’s smiling as she says it, though, which means that at least it’s a _good_ memory, which he supposes is an extremely good thing considering the premises. “Then he showed me the cover, asked me if I thought the guy looked nicer than that asshole Ronnet Connington, I told him there was no contest and he says that if _Bruce_ didn’t care for looks and he was hot himself, well, who gives a fuck about what Ronnet Connington thinks, right?”

“You know, your dad could beat mine at parenting without even blinking.”

She smiles. “Yeah. He’s coming to London, but he has sitting tickets.”

He _is_ about to tell her that maybe _Badlands_ is his favorite because it always managed to describe perfectly how much he _hated_ his life and wanted to get out of it, and then the kid shows up, picks his car after Jaime gives him the keys and tells them to come back to get it at least two days from now or whenever they want, and a moment later Brienne has told him to put his backpack on and handed him her spare helmet.

“So,” she says, “I can’t believe I’m saying this and I swear I don’t mean it in a creepy way but I just realize this is the one time I can actually _do it_ without someone telling I’m being inappropriate, but —”

He laughs, realizing _exactly_ what she’s about to say.

“Of course [I’ll wrap my legs around these velvet rims and strap my hands across your engines](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxuThNgl3YA), _Brienne_,” he says, and she pretends to be outraged.

“Hey, that was _my_ line! That was a dick move.”

“Sorry,” he says, not meaning it at all, “I’ve been known to be one, at times.”

“Just get behind me,” she smiles, and then puts the helmet on and gets on the bike again.

Jaime swallows, puts his own helmet on, moves his legs behind her, wraps his hands around her waist and _shit_ he can feel her muscles under her t-shirt, how _ripped _is she?, and then she’s speeding on the highway and there’s wind on his hands and he decides that his car breaking down is _definitely_ not the worst thing that happened to him.

— —

Against all odds, they make _second_ row.

In order to make second row, they about camp for the entire damned day _and_ night and subsequent day taking bathroom breaks and buying food in turn and damn wasn’t that easier to do it with someone to make sure your spot wouldn’t disappear, he _does_ tell her why he likes _Badlands_ that much, she looks at him in understanding and tells him that admittedly she considered it for her second tattoo. She shows him the first — _obviously_ it’s _it’s a town full of losers and I’m pulling out of here to win_.

“I kind of always wanted one,” he admits. “I might have chickened out until now.”

“It’s not _that_ painful,” she says.

“Please, took me fifteen years to actually do the road trip and if I showed up home with _that_ while I was still in the company’s PR branch they’d have murdered me.”

“Well, you don’t work there anymore now, do you?”

“I don’t,” he agrees, and she’s right, maybe he _should_ consider it for good. After all, who can tell him anything now? Sure as hell not his father or sister, and fuck them both.

By the time June 3rd rolls by, not only he thinks she knows more about him than anyone that’s not Tyrion considering that they were still discussing whether _Atlantic City_ is better [acoustic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3eu1gW-bQ8) or [electric](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p-FZozVtgHw) (he voted electric, she voted acoustic) at three in the damned morning, but they ended up sort of making friends with everyone else around them and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t had a friendly conversation in these terms with _anyone_ since high school, _if_ he even had, because in high school everyone who wanted to be friends was after his money, not after his shining personality or his Springsteen t-shirts.

By the time the concert actually starts, he completely ruins any pretense of going through this with any dignity — opening with _[For You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fv8MRY89ixM)_ was a fucking low blow and _[Something in the Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I6Dpgn5FpiE)_ just after was the _lowest_ possible blow considering the tears he spilled on that damned song back in the day. Brienne just looks ecstatic that she played it at all, not that he can fault her for that.

_Then again, _she breaks down in tears during the final _Thunder Road_ and by the time they’re out it’s well past midnight, they’re dead on their feet, she’s wiping tears as she grins and he doesn’t even mind that his feet are screaming because it was _even better than Manchester and Glasglow_ and those two were mind-blowing anyway, but —

But he was on his own for them and he hadn’t even managed to talk to anyone because he just had no clue of how to breach the subject so he resorted to look at his phone or read something, and now he’s not, and —

“Hey,” Brienne tells him later as they find the nearest open pub, which of course is full of people coming from the concert as well and is blasting Springsteen to gain the audience’s favor, “I, uh, listen, I’m really — shit. I guess it’s probably obvious that I don’t know many people who like Bruce as much as I do and who’d want to try first row. Except my boss. But you know, it’s — not the same. My dad says his back got too old for that.”

“Do I have to remind you my very sad situation in which the only sort of close friend I have is _my brother_’s best friend and if they’re both out of the country I basically don’t talk to anyone? Please.”

She looks at him. She’s half-blushing. It’s probably for the heat, he decides.

“Well, to get your car we should waste half a day, _if_ it’s ready. And I was planning on finding a laundromat for my clothing and then driving down to London for Wembley. You also have standing tickets, right?”

“_Sure_ I’ve got standing tickets.”

“Maybe — maybe you could just come with me to London, too, and then I can drive you back to Coventry? If you’d like, of course.”

She sounds tentative, like she might have gone too forward, like she _never_ invites people to queue with her for concerts, and —

“Sure I’d like that,” he grins back. “You think I like being miserable while waiting for two damned days straight? Also, your bike is comfortable as hell.”

“Oh,” she breathes, her smile lightening up her eyes, “good. Then — then we’re doing it.” She clinks her beer bottle against his and he thinks that in this light, she _really_ doesn’t look homely — her hair is a nice shade of blonde, actually, and her eyes are sparkling and her smile lights up her face and the freckles look like they belong on her face and all in all, he thinks she’s actually kind of attractive and that’s not just because he likes her _personality_, for —

Wait.

Shit.

_Is he into her_?

— —

Twelve hours later, they’ve been almost thrown out of the 24/7 laundromat place because they were both tipsy when they got in and while their stuff washed they started singing _[Hungry Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=boJhWtw-6Gg)_ at the top of their lungs and the other patrons didn’t appreciate it, they’ve had breakfast at six AM in some crappy bar near the highway’s first exit, they’ve stopped for gas a few times and got almost thrown out of the gas station while getting coffee for the same show as before (except that it was _[The Promised Land](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_Cf6pgwm0I)_ this time), they’re heading for Wembley in the shitty London traffic and he thinks they’re way in the outer skirts, but then she stops the motorcycle at once the moment she zeroes in on a tattoo shop.

He takes off his helmet as she takes off hers.

“I mean,” she said, “you said you did want one, right?”

“I did,” he confirms.

She shrugs. “I also want one. I’ve done that venue more than once. We’re totally in time if we want to be ahead. So, do we get it? Though wait, I should probably check the online reviews.”

“_What_ —”

“I don’t want to get an infection because they’re crap tattooists,” she says, whipping out her phone. After a quick check, she declares that the shop has 4.7 on Yelp or _whatever_, so it should be safe. “So,” she says, “are we?”

“You know what,” he says, figuring that he should really just go for it, “_yes_. Let’s do it.”

She grins back at him and he follows her into the shop, and the guy is admittedly very amused when he asks what line they want and both of them blurt the same at the _exact same moment_.

“Well then,” he says, “it’s twenty minutes at most. Want to look at fonts?”

— —

One hour later, both of them have their inner arm carefully bandaged, with _it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive_ inked inside in the same font — he has it in dark red and she has it in blue.

He’s also pretty damn sure he’s into her for real, he’s positive, he couldn’t take his eyes off her while they were getting inked and when she grabbed his hand as he got his own and viceversa his entire spine was tingling and his stomach was feeling warmer and warmer, and —

Well.

He doubts she’s interested like _that_, but she seems to want to be friends.

At least he’s pretty sure they’ll keep in contact after this whole tour madness is over.

— —

She was right about the queueing — they get there mid-morning and there’s barely anyone yet. She calls her boss and informs him that no, his car is definitely get repaired post-concert because they didn’t get as far as his spot in the list before he had to leave for London and that her boss hates them _more _because the Coventry setlist was particularly good, then she calls her father for a while and if for a moment he’s envious that they sound like they’re _close_, well, it’s not her fault if she didn’t get the short end of the stick in the parenting department.

“So,” she tells him after she’s done, “he says he’s coming to say hi tomorrow.”

“Wait, he _is_?”

“Yeah. He said that he can’t believe I actually found someone to go to concerts with that’s not him and he wants to see it with his own eyes.”

“Hilarious,” Jaime says, “but hey, sure thing. Just tell him I’ll be green with envy if he starts discussing whichever tour he attended.”

“… This is the part where I inform you he actually went to the Hammersmith. In ’75.”

“Okay, now I _really_ hate his guts.”

She bursts out laughing and he decides he _really_ likes the sight — she has a loud voice but it’s just so _nice_ to hear with how genuine it feels, and he _does_ have to follow because fine, he figures it _was_ somewhat amusing, and then some other kid sitting near them joins and says that if _anyone_ that saw him in ’75 shows up here he’ll be dead green with envy, too, and when he sees that he has twenty lost calls from his father, he absolutely ignores them.

— —

Brienne’s father shows up at lunchtime the next day with a bag full of iced tea for fifteen people that their entire section of the queue immediately thanks him for right as Jaime, Brienne, the kid from yesterday — Robb, Jaime thinks the name was — and the friend he came with — Sam, he said (apparently Sam is actually Robb’s _brother’s_ best friend but said brother isn’t into Springsteen and so they went together) are discussing the merits of [electric](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w038TQyWRN8) _Youngstown_ versus [acoustic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GaFUOQWi9A) (Jaime and Robb swore for electric, Sam and Brienne are swearing for acoustic).

“Why the hell would you argue over that when they’re equally as good,” the man says as he drops the bag behind Brienne’s shoulders before introducing himself as Selwyn, and Jaime can immediately see the resemblance — he’s tall, has the same blue eyes and large shoulders even if he’s not as muscled, and of course he has some vintage t-shirt from the _actual_ River tour from the eighties, and Jaime hopes that he doesn’t decide he’s some kind of creep the moment he sees him, but the man just nods in approval at his attire, says that it’s never too late to join the mass of people being asked if they’re insane for going to more than one date per tour, and doesn’t leave for another couple hours, during which each single person in their side of the line hounds him with questions about the Hammersmith concert.

“Well,” he says after Brienne has left for a bathroom break some half hour before the doors are supposed to open and they’re supposed to _run_, “good luck getting your first row, I’ll be cheering for you. Also, can I tell you something man to man?”

Jaime, whose father has only ever asked him that question maybe three times and wishes he’d forget all of them, stands up and nods, hoping it’s nothing bad.

“So,” he says, “when Brienne texted me that she was actually driving some guy to Coventry I about couldn’t believe it given her abysmal luck in the _meeting guys who aren’t arses_ department, but I suppose you might have grasped that if you two have been this chummy until now.”

“Yeah,” he confirms, “and — well, yeah, she did tell me, but — I mean, she’s easy to talk to. I usually don’t overshare either.”

“I see,” Selwyn says. “Well, let’s say I _did_ notice how she looks at you.”

“_What_ —”

“And I did notice how _you_ are looking at her and I think that after you got _matching tattoos_ three days after having met or even less, I think I know what I’m seeing.”

Jaime says nothing, waiting for the shoe to drop —

“So, this is when I tell you that when she was fifteen or so, the one time she went to some all-girls sleepover with people from her class, they were discussing what would their ideal _boyfriend_ do to put a move on them if they had one.”

“… And?”

“_And_, she spent a year with people making fun of her for what she answered. Which was, that said boyfriend would bring her to see Springsteen _and_ kiss her during _Thunder Road_, and apparently it was an extremely lame answer. This is also where I tell you that if you fuck things up knowing what I just told you, you won’t like it. Was that clear?”

“… Extremely,” Jaime says, not even trying to ask him _why_ he’s sharing.

“Good,” he says. “Let’s see if I’m not wrong about the good feeling I have about you.”

Then he turns his back on Jaime and goes back where he came from, right, he has sitting tickets, he doesn’t need to be here —

Shit.

_Shit_.

He figured him out in ten seconds, hasn’t he —

But —

_I did notice how she looks at you_.

Jaime hasn’t noticed anything at all, but what the hell does he even know when he’s barely even put a move on anyone in his entire life because, well, because if he did Cersei would end up destroying their lives?

When she comes back he just tells her that her dad is going to his own line.

“So,” she asks, five minutes before the gates open, “ready to run?”

“Aren’t we all born for it?”

She laughs _really_ hard at that, tears coming to her eyes, and fuck, he _really_ thinks he’d like to kiss her, and yeah, _yeah_, he’s definitely into her, but then as she nods at him before wiping at her eyes and telling him to get ready to run, and for a moment she looks almost _fond_, and what if —

If she really —

He smiles to himself a bit.

He’ll think about what to do with _that_ specific information her father told him just after they secured their spot.

— —

The good news is that they _do_ manage first row, and she looks legitimately giddy as they grab their spots, and fuck but he is, too, they _finally_ managed, they did —

Well.

He’s been to three concerts so far and he’s read the setlist for all the others. Regardless of what happens throughout, unless there’s some drastic change, _Thunder Road_ will be at the very ending. It’s been the last on the setlist so far, no reason to assume it won’t this time, so he has _at least_ three hours and a half to get himself mentally ready to go for it.

“Too bad we can’t take off the bandage yet,” he sighs. “We could have showed the tattoos off.”

She grins back at him, her cheeks flushing under those freckles. “I know,” she sighs. “Too sad indeed.” Her phone vibrates. “My boss is hating us all over again.”

“Why?”

“He’s in tenth row. Damn, I should have brought a sign, I guess.”

_Right_, Jaime thinks, they could have thought about it, but they’re surrounded by people with a bunch of them, so he supposes there would have been a low chance anyway.

“Too bad, he can queue with us next time.”

“I don’t know,” she says, “he tends to get a bad impression if your favorite song from _Darkness_ isn’t _[Racing in the Street](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ecunQO_uoIg)_.”

“I’ll take the risk,” he grins back, and she looks delighted at it, and —

Fuck it all, maybe he shouldn’t drop it on her without warning, but after all the question was, _what move would the hypothetical boyfriend put on them_, right?

He smiles to himself.

Maybe he _can_ make up for all the moves he hasn’t put on anyone for half of his life.

— —

On one side, it’s a good thing that Coventry’s setlist was actually a lot better than this one, because while it’s always a hell of a damned concert, he’s not so caught up in _his_ own barrel of emotions that he can’t check on her once in a while, and while it _does_ take a lot of self restraint to _not_ put a move on her during _Spirit in the Night_, he knows it wouldn’t be te same. He wipes his eyes during _[Jungleland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JR_0nbEzVdY)_ as she puts an arm around his shoulders and she does the same, and they aren’t picked to go up on stage during _Dancing in the Dark_, but it’s all right, since the others who get picked look as elated as they _all_ are and honestly he’d have fainted if someone stuck a microphone in front of him, so — that’s good.

That’s all good.

That’s all good until their feet are hurting and the band’s out and Bruce shows up on his own with just guitar and harmonica saying _one more for Wembley, _and Brienne looks like she’s about to break down in tears like she did in Coventry, and —

Okay. _Okay_, he did plan it. He thinks he’s got it.

He waits for the harmonica. His hands are sweating and he wishes he could look up above but he can only look at Brienne who’s staring up enraptured, and —

_ [The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_yox14Mxn8) _

_Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays_ —

She moves a hand to her mouth.

He not so subtly grabs her free one and she immediately holds it back — good. She probably thinks it was for support.

Let her think that for the next thirty seconds.

_Roy Orbison sings for the lonely,_

_Hey that’s me and I want you only —_

Okay. She squeezes his hand. He squeezes back.

_Don't turn me home again, I just can't face myself alone again_

_Don't run back inside, darling, you know just what I'm here for_

_So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore —_

Right, _right_, it’s now or never.

The moment the crowd goes into the next bit, he puts an arm around her, dragging her down, and instead of shouting _show a little faith, there’s magic in the night_ at the stage he whispers it in her ear, and then he does the same at _you ain’t a beauty but hey, you’re all right_, and the moment Bruce sings _and that’s all right with me_ he puts a hand on her face and drags her _down_ and his mouth meets hers and suddenly everyone around them is cheering and he doesn’t know why and it doesn’t matter because she’s gasped inside her mouth and kissed him back and her hands are on _his_ face and they don’t part until _well I ain’t no hero, that’s understood_, and she’s looking down at him like she can’t believe it and someone behind them whispers that it was a pretty damn smooth move before they move back to paying attention, and his fingers thread with hers again at _come take my hand, we’ll ride own tonight to case the promised land_, and while they _do_ sing along to the rest he glances at her every once in a while and she looks so overwhelmed she might faint but in the good way, and by the time it’s almost over he can’t resist it and he kisses her _again_ just after _it’s a town full of losers and I’m pulling out of here to win_, as the harmonica fills the stadium, and after the lights are back on he realizes she’s openly crying but she’s also grinning so wide it’s just a joy to see, and —

“So,” he says, “your father clued me in on _that_ move, but — uhm. I meant it, if there was any doubt.”

“My — oh, _of course_ he noticed,” she says. “I — I felt like an idiot, I mean, I thought there was no way —”

“Brienne?” He interrupts. “The only thing I’m regretting is that _this_ was the last British concert and you won’t end up driving me to the next.”

She laughs, again, and she leans down and kisses _him_ this time, and fuck but people aren’t even pushing them to leave so he supposes they’re enjoying the show, and —

_And_ —

“You know,” he says as they part and head for the exit, where they have some kind of appointment with her boss, “this is probably where I should tell you that I’m not exactly _low_ on money.”

“I figured it out on the way to Coventry, actually.”

“… You did?”

“You _are_ on a few gossip magazines. But you weren’t bragging about it and I figured that you didn’t want to advertise it, also you were easy to talk to and as my dad says, the moment we’re all in for Springsteen this stuff really doesn’t matter. So. Yeah, I knew. But I really didn’t care.”

Well. If he wasn’t sure before, considering that most people who hit on him are definitely into his money first and everything after…

Yeah. Fuck that. He’s _so_ asking her.

“Then — well. This is the last _British_ concert,” he grins. “And sadly I have a few things to do this week, but you _do_ know he has two concerts in Gothenburg coming _and_ one in Copenhagen? It would be a pity to _not_ see another concert when we could show off our matching tats?”

She stares back at him. “Yeah, and they’re most likely sold-out.”

“Never said that I don’t know someone who owes me a few favors.” Or better, his _father_ won’t, but he’s pretty sure that if he butters up Aunt Genna enough she _will_ find a way to get him some of those tickets they always keep for last minute VIP access or something. Or he can just call Tyrion and see if he’ll do it from New Zealand, but anyway, he thinks it’s not undoable.

“Also,” he adds, “I work from home these days. Nothing says I can’t stay in Coventry for a while if I go grab my laptop before then.”

She grins, very slowly. “Well, I _do_ have to drive you back to get your car.”

“See, I _do_ like how you think. So, if I do find those tickets you’re up to join the Swedish in their quest to break that stadium’s floor, _again_?”

“_Absolutely_,” she grins back, and so maybe they’re still locking lips when her boss finally finds them and tells her that it was time but he’s so going to fire her if she tries to pull _anything_ in his shop.

Who cares.

He thinks he really can’t wait to spend the next days in Coventry, and he _really_ can’t wait to horrify his father some more dumping his hard-earned money from PR on _more_ Springsteen concerts.

Sounds like this summer is off to the best start of any summer in his life, and like his car breaking down is _definitely_ the best thing that’s happened to him so far.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> The version of Thunder Road linked at the end is a fan video from the actual Wembley '16 concert. <strike>If anyone is wondering whether I exaggerated the level of utter obsessed we get when Springsteen tours happen, I can 100% assure you this was downplaying it ;)</strike>


End file.
